What was the name of the dairy bar on Lakeshore just east of Dixie Road? Was it the Tasty Freeze? Or am I confused with song lyrics? I'm sitting here with the skylight open, spring drifting in, and I'm reminded of nights when we'd go for ice cream when we couldn't sleep. Oddly, those nights happened most often in the dead city heat, when the act of simply lying on the floor naked in front of the fan did nothing to ease the discomfort of thick air, slick sweat soaked body. Not beautiful breezy nights like now. I think I'm reminded of those sticky nights now because I used to long for cooler air, dream about it, spend hours lying around and thinking about home. With no air conditioning, sleep became impossible during the heat wave, no matter how exhausted you'd get. We'd enter into this surreal state of being, sluggish existence, with little talk, no relief. The banana split would melt as soon as we left the air conditioned shack.
To escape we'd usually go driving. North. With the windows down. Q107. I'd lay across the seat, bare feet in his lap, resting my head on the door, staring into the sky, hair ruffling in the wind. If we went far enough there would be stars. Sometimes we'd go to the drive-in. Sometimes we'd just drive around. Sometimes we'd talk about moving north. Most times we'd just drive. We didn't need to talk. Being together was always enough, especially when you could breathe.
Mood: nostalgic
Drinking: water
Listening To: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For, U2
Hair: still doing that 50's thing
Friday, March 31, 2006
Dream Themes
Cars one night, something else the next. And the dreams continue. Last night's dream theme was definitely exes. In the first dream, my high school sweetheart came to visit me here in Sackville. Odd for him to show up. In the dream we were teenagers again and wild and impulsive (well, I was wild and impulsive at least, you know him, he was always trying to reign me in). It was actually good to see him, to talk about foolish things, to make-out in public like the teenagers we were and not care what people thought of us. It was a butterflies in the stomach type of dream, like the first time I saw him in the spring, like that first fall we were together. Oh to be young and in love! Without all the crazy hormonal teenage angst mood swings and drama. But to hold that one moment in 1983 when we were perfect and stretch it to eternity, that's something, that's what this dream felt like.
In the next dream I found myself at the Long Branch GO Station, waiting for the train to Union Station, where I would catch the VIA Ocean train to New Brunswick. I had just missed the last GO Train and had to wait for an hour or so for the next one. Then Kevin showed up. This dream was not as playful, not as freeing. No butterflies. Which in its own way is kind of odd because all the best butterfly dreams centre around Kevin usually (or Jon Bon! lol). The feeling of this dream was . . . dread is probably the best word. I dreaded seeing him. I had hoped to get away before he got there. He wanted me to meet a girl, his new girlfriend. She seemed pleasant enough, nice actually, down-to-earth, nurturing, the kind of woman who would make a good wife and mother. And he seemed so happy. They looked good together. I was happy for him of course, but also sad. I could tell they were going to last, that we were really over. And this realization hurt me some. I woke up a little bit sad, took awhile to shake it off.
I also dreamed about the boy who took me to my junior prom, the boy I worked with at the pet store, the boy I worked with in Moncton, and numerous other cuties that I haven't thought about in years. Obviously, the spring weather has driven me a little boy crazy. Maybe I need to go out and find a real one. Yeah, that thought knots my stomach up pretty damn quick. Maybe another day then.
Mood: wired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: traffic, birds, wind, kids playing, all the sounds of spring
Hair: loosely knotted
In the next dream I found myself at the Long Branch GO Station, waiting for the train to Union Station, where I would catch the VIA Ocean train to New Brunswick. I had just missed the last GO Train and had to wait for an hour or so for the next one. Then Kevin showed up. This dream was not as playful, not as freeing. No butterflies. Which in its own way is kind of odd because all the best butterfly dreams centre around Kevin usually (or Jon Bon! lol). The feeling of this dream was . . . dread is probably the best word. I dreaded seeing him. I had hoped to get away before he got there. He wanted me to meet a girl, his new girlfriend. She seemed pleasant enough, nice actually, down-to-earth, nurturing, the kind of woman who would make a good wife and mother. And he seemed so happy. They looked good together. I was happy for him of course, but also sad. I could tell they were going to last, that we were really over. And this realization hurt me some. I woke up a little bit sad, took awhile to shake it off.
I also dreamed about the boy who took me to my junior prom, the boy I worked with at the pet store, the boy I worked with in Moncton, and numerous other cuties that I haven't thought about in years. Obviously, the spring weather has driven me a little boy crazy. Maybe I need to go out and find a real one. Yeah, that thought knots my stomach up pretty damn quick. Maybe another day then.
Mood: wired
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: traffic, birds, wind, kids playing, all the sounds of spring
Hair: loosely knotted
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Where Is the Moon?
Like seriously, is the moon new or full or waning or doing something else crazy? Again? So soon? Because the dreams are killing me . . .
I'm way back Cains River, a little bit off the main road on what I guess must be a logging road. Not sure why I'm there alone but I need to get out of there. It's awhile ago. I'm a teenager. I can tell by the jean jacket I'm wearing, it's all written up on the inside with signatures and song lyrics and poetry. It's a gorgeous morning, warm, breezy, and no mosquitoes (which is total fantasy if you've ever been back Cains River in the morning . . . or anytime for that matter). I'm thinking about walking back to Blackville but it's really far so I'm laying in the bushes reflecting on my choices when a red Ford '70's half-ton truck pulls in behind me. A man gets out, mid-twenties, about 6'1", slim, short spiky dirty blonde hair, greasy, a mouth full of braces or rotten teeth, wearing a white Rush muscle shirt, some sort of tattoo on his bicep, cigarette in his mouth, dirty workgloves on his hands. He's dumping garbage off the tailgate. I jump up and scare him a bit, but I want a ride back to civilization, I'm desperate. So I say Hi, nice day, what are you doing, etc. I'm confused about how he got behind me on this logging road. Want to know where he came from. Is there another main road on the other end? Am I close to Rogersville? Dupres Lake? Blackville? Where am I exactly? And he's evasive. Twitchy. The more questions I ask, the twitchier he gets. Then I remember someone telling me about people disappearing back Cains River, about families living back there in the woods, nobody knew where, kind of cultish communes, and it occurs to me that he's one of them. I shut up. Thank him for his help. Start backing away toward the main road, determined to walk to Blackville. The CB radio in his truck crackles with static and someone calls to him, says something I can't hear. I speed up. When I get to the road and out of his line of sight I start running, just as I hear his truck start up, pull out and come after me. I dive for the treeline and . . .
I'm at a costume party at an old country farmhouse. It's like a scene out of Anna Karenina. My dress is heavy, so many petticoats. Everyone's dressed to the period and the group assembled are all writers and literary types. Marilyn and Jan host, though this is not their house. The farmhouse has high ceilings and antique mahogany tables filled with trays of fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, vegetables, goblets of wine. I can smell pork and salmon cooking somewhere. It's the height of summer and the countryside is burning down. The stench of smoke invades everything, my clothes, the curtains, my hair. I can look out any window and see flames, black smoke in the distance. It's a lazy day. People drift from room to room barely talking, nibbling on things. A very quiet gathering, soft music (Mozart?) wafting in from somewhere, everyone lost in their own thoughts. I could sleep I'm so lazy from the heat, the wine, the heavy dress. Marilyn enters the room, sees me and comes over. Gives me a welcoming hug, tells me she's so glad I could come, she's found the perfect thing for me and has been waiting to give it to me. She takes me out back to a guest house (cottage). It's full of books - on shelves, stacked on tables, piled on the floor. Old hard covered treasures. Shakespeare. Keats. Blake. Chekhov. Kafka. Dickens. Marilyn mutters and searches for the book she wants me to have while I thumb through all the titles in amazement. "Aha!" she says and hands me a sheaf of yellowing papers. Writing from another time. Longhand text. A story maybe or a section of a longer work. "Never published," she whispers. I skim. Notice the author's name. Henry David Thoreau. I gape. Someone calls Marilyn just then and she excuses herself. I'm stunned. I follow her to the doorway and watch her cross the backyard to the main house. The smoke has thickened. I can hear the fire snap. Sparks start to fall like rain on the back lawn. People run out of the house yelling, warning. I look up and the rafters of the cottage are all ablaze. Holy Shit! Without thinking I run back into the room and start gathering books, trying to save them. I can hear the house collapsing around me. People screaming for me to come out . . .
I'm sitting at the bar in Avenue at the Four Seasons, facing the door when Jon Bon walks in, scans the room, sees me, smiles and comes over. We hug and kiss cheeks in greeting. Old friends, me and Jon. Wasn't it just last summer he had me stay over at his house for a month or so? Wasn't it just months ago we were driving around with Richie and Heather? So good to see him again. He's wearing a tan brown coloured leather jacket, white shirt with the top buttons undone, gold chain around his neck, faded jeans like latex and worn brown boots. He guides me by the elbow to a table in the private VIP room. Very nice decor. Simple, yet elegant. Away from prying eyes. We order a bottle of wine and appetizers. I ask about the tour, how his kids are making out in school, how everyone else in the band is doing. I'm genuinely interested. I care about him, he's a dear old friend. We talk about my writing, creativity in general, hopes and dreams, what's going well in our lives and what's going not so well. We're very comfortable together, can talk about anything, everything. Eventually I ask about his wife and he goes quiet for a second, brow furrows. Then he smiles and blurts it all out. The reason he asked me to meet him tonight is because his marriage is over. They tried but they can't work out their differences. It's for the best really, he hasn't been in love with his wife for quite a few years now. I'm shocked. They seemed like the perfect couple, the fairytale romance. He continues, saying he's tired of being the rock star. He can't handle another day of being under constant public scrutiny. He wants out. He wants to run away, to hide, to just disappear. He's all worked up about it. Very emotional. Glossy eyed. And it breaks my heart to see him like this. He wants to come back to New Brunswick with me, take a break, get lost in the small town. I say sure, anything he wants, we'll work through it, I'll help. He's welcome to stay as long as he wants. I can probably even set him up in my uncle's camp on the water, so he can be alone, think things out. I pat his hand. There, there. He coils his fingers in mine and squeezes my hand, looks into my eyes, "No, you don't understand. I don't want to be alone. I want to be with you. I'm in love with you." I laugh nervously. But he's serious. I can see it in his eyes. Intense blue. Oh God . . .
There's a new girl living on the Barnettville Road. She looks like Jennifer Jason Leigh, circa Single White Female, with a bleached blonde pixie cut. She's way out of hand, wild and unruly. So of course she lives at Marty's. Lee has a crush on her. All the boys on the road are screwing her or trying to. She drives a four door white Crown Victoria with red leather interior. Parties all the time. They say she'll do anything with anyone for a little bit of weed or a bottle of beer. She likes to tease, flirt, with the boys, with girls, old, young, she doesn't discriminate. I warn Lee to stay away from her, but of course he doesn't listen. She lures him onto the road with a wink and a giggle. Then she and the boys she's partying with laugh as they chase him with the car and spin rocks at him. At one point I look out the living room picture window and see she's somehow managed to drive onto our front deck. I can't figure out how. It's not logical, all the railings are intact. She laughs, blows kisses and drives away before I can figure it out. Lee comes home badly beaten, all cut up, bleeding, bruised. Me and Mom take the car (the black LTD with tan interior that Dad had when I was a kid) and go looking for them, we go looking for a fight, ready to retaliate . . .
I pick up Herschel in Blackville and he's in bad shape, mumbling all kinds of crazy stuff. He says him and Holly (Kim's girl I think) were bitten by the devil's spiders and now their souls belong to him. They have to do the devil's work. Herschel's terrified, frantic. He needs to get to town, needs to stop her before she does something terrible. He says Holly is leaving on a train to Toronto to ruin all the people there. He's chain-smoking, trembling, sweating profusely. I think he's gotten into some bad drugs. Think I should take him to the hospital. He keeps saying he doesn't want to do bad things. He cries, big fat tears falling from his bloodshot eyes. I notice how thin he is, wonder what he's into. He says nothing. Just a little weed, nothing stronger. He thinks the only way to end it is to kill himself, but first he's got to stop Holly. He climbs into the back seat to lay down while I race to town. I need to get him to the hospital. He's doubled over with cramps in the back seat, moaning with pain, saying he doesn't want to over and over. All of a sudden he goes quiet and alarmed I turn to look and see if he's okay. He's sitting up, quite still and calm, the pupils of his eyes burning bright red, his lips curled in a snarl . . .
And then I woke up. Exhausted. A little bit disoriented and afraid. Wondering where all the Dodges have gone. The clock said I had been asleep less than an hour. It took much longer to write all the dreams down than to have them. There haven't been many nights without dreams in my lifetime. Any dreamless nights that did occur only happened after much liquor and/or drugs and/or many days in succession without any sleep at all. My mother dreams like this too, so I know I'm not the only one, but still . . . sometimes I wish I could just turn it off and sleep for real.
Mood: out of hand
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: On the Run, Sam Roberts
Hair: recently laundered and too f'ing thick to handle
I'm way back Cains River, a little bit off the main road on what I guess must be a logging road. Not sure why I'm there alone but I need to get out of there. It's awhile ago. I'm a teenager. I can tell by the jean jacket I'm wearing, it's all written up on the inside with signatures and song lyrics and poetry. It's a gorgeous morning, warm, breezy, and no mosquitoes (which is total fantasy if you've ever been back Cains River in the morning . . . or anytime for that matter). I'm thinking about walking back to Blackville but it's really far so I'm laying in the bushes reflecting on my choices when a red Ford '70's half-ton truck pulls in behind me. A man gets out, mid-twenties, about 6'1", slim, short spiky dirty blonde hair, greasy, a mouth full of braces or rotten teeth, wearing a white Rush muscle shirt, some sort of tattoo on his bicep, cigarette in his mouth, dirty workgloves on his hands. He's dumping garbage off the tailgate. I jump up and scare him a bit, but I want a ride back to civilization, I'm desperate. So I say Hi, nice day, what are you doing, etc. I'm confused about how he got behind me on this logging road. Want to know where he came from. Is there another main road on the other end? Am I close to Rogersville? Dupres Lake? Blackville? Where am I exactly? And he's evasive. Twitchy. The more questions I ask, the twitchier he gets. Then I remember someone telling me about people disappearing back Cains River, about families living back there in the woods, nobody knew where, kind of cultish communes, and it occurs to me that he's one of them. I shut up. Thank him for his help. Start backing away toward the main road, determined to walk to Blackville. The CB radio in his truck crackles with static and someone calls to him, says something I can't hear. I speed up. When I get to the road and out of his line of sight I start running, just as I hear his truck start up, pull out and come after me. I dive for the treeline and . . .
I'm at a costume party at an old country farmhouse. It's like a scene out of Anna Karenina. My dress is heavy, so many petticoats. Everyone's dressed to the period and the group assembled are all writers and literary types. Marilyn and Jan host, though this is not their house. The farmhouse has high ceilings and antique mahogany tables filled with trays of fresh fruit, cheeses, breads, vegetables, goblets of wine. I can smell pork and salmon cooking somewhere. It's the height of summer and the countryside is burning down. The stench of smoke invades everything, my clothes, the curtains, my hair. I can look out any window and see flames, black smoke in the distance. It's a lazy day. People drift from room to room barely talking, nibbling on things. A very quiet gathering, soft music (Mozart?) wafting in from somewhere, everyone lost in their own thoughts. I could sleep I'm so lazy from the heat, the wine, the heavy dress. Marilyn enters the room, sees me and comes over. Gives me a welcoming hug, tells me she's so glad I could come, she's found the perfect thing for me and has been waiting to give it to me. She takes me out back to a guest house (cottage). It's full of books - on shelves, stacked on tables, piled on the floor. Old hard covered treasures. Shakespeare. Keats. Blake. Chekhov. Kafka. Dickens. Marilyn mutters and searches for the book she wants me to have while I thumb through all the titles in amazement. "Aha!" she says and hands me a sheaf of yellowing papers. Writing from another time. Longhand text. A story maybe or a section of a longer work. "Never published," she whispers. I skim. Notice the author's name. Henry David Thoreau. I gape. Someone calls Marilyn just then and she excuses herself. I'm stunned. I follow her to the doorway and watch her cross the backyard to the main house. The smoke has thickened. I can hear the fire snap. Sparks start to fall like rain on the back lawn. People run out of the house yelling, warning. I look up and the rafters of the cottage are all ablaze. Holy Shit! Without thinking I run back into the room and start gathering books, trying to save them. I can hear the house collapsing around me. People screaming for me to come out . . .
I'm sitting at the bar in Avenue at the Four Seasons, facing the door when Jon Bon walks in, scans the room, sees me, smiles and comes over. We hug and kiss cheeks in greeting. Old friends, me and Jon. Wasn't it just last summer he had me stay over at his house for a month or so? Wasn't it just months ago we were driving around with Richie and Heather? So good to see him again. He's wearing a tan brown coloured leather jacket, white shirt with the top buttons undone, gold chain around his neck, faded jeans like latex and worn brown boots. He guides me by the elbow to a table in the private VIP room. Very nice decor. Simple, yet elegant. Away from prying eyes. We order a bottle of wine and appetizers. I ask about the tour, how his kids are making out in school, how everyone else in the band is doing. I'm genuinely interested. I care about him, he's a dear old friend. We talk about my writing, creativity in general, hopes and dreams, what's going well in our lives and what's going not so well. We're very comfortable together, can talk about anything, everything. Eventually I ask about his wife and he goes quiet for a second, brow furrows. Then he smiles and blurts it all out. The reason he asked me to meet him tonight is because his marriage is over. They tried but they can't work out their differences. It's for the best really, he hasn't been in love with his wife for quite a few years now. I'm shocked. They seemed like the perfect couple, the fairytale romance. He continues, saying he's tired of being the rock star. He can't handle another day of being under constant public scrutiny. He wants out. He wants to run away, to hide, to just disappear. He's all worked up about it. Very emotional. Glossy eyed. And it breaks my heart to see him like this. He wants to come back to New Brunswick with me, take a break, get lost in the small town. I say sure, anything he wants, we'll work through it, I'll help. He's welcome to stay as long as he wants. I can probably even set him up in my uncle's camp on the water, so he can be alone, think things out. I pat his hand. There, there. He coils his fingers in mine and squeezes my hand, looks into my eyes, "No, you don't understand. I don't want to be alone. I want to be with you. I'm in love with you." I laugh nervously. But he's serious. I can see it in his eyes. Intense blue. Oh God . . .
There's a new girl living on the Barnettville Road. She looks like Jennifer Jason Leigh, circa Single White Female, with a bleached blonde pixie cut. She's way out of hand, wild and unruly. So of course she lives at Marty's. Lee has a crush on her. All the boys on the road are screwing her or trying to. She drives a four door white Crown Victoria with red leather interior. Parties all the time. They say she'll do anything with anyone for a little bit of weed or a bottle of beer. She likes to tease, flirt, with the boys, with girls, old, young, she doesn't discriminate. I warn Lee to stay away from her, but of course he doesn't listen. She lures him onto the road with a wink and a giggle. Then she and the boys she's partying with laugh as they chase him with the car and spin rocks at him. At one point I look out the living room picture window and see she's somehow managed to drive onto our front deck. I can't figure out how. It's not logical, all the railings are intact. She laughs, blows kisses and drives away before I can figure it out. Lee comes home badly beaten, all cut up, bleeding, bruised. Me and Mom take the car (the black LTD with tan interior that Dad had when I was a kid) and go looking for them, we go looking for a fight, ready to retaliate . . .
I pick up Herschel in Blackville and he's in bad shape, mumbling all kinds of crazy stuff. He says him and Holly (Kim's girl I think) were bitten by the devil's spiders and now their souls belong to him. They have to do the devil's work. Herschel's terrified, frantic. He needs to get to town, needs to stop her before she does something terrible. He says Holly is leaving on a train to Toronto to ruin all the people there. He's chain-smoking, trembling, sweating profusely. I think he's gotten into some bad drugs. Think I should take him to the hospital. He keeps saying he doesn't want to do bad things. He cries, big fat tears falling from his bloodshot eyes. I notice how thin he is, wonder what he's into. He says nothing. Just a little weed, nothing stronger. He thinks the only way to end it is to kill himself, but first he's got to stop Holly. He climbs into the back seat to lay down while I race to town. I need to get him to the hospital. He's doubled over with cramps in the back seat, moaning with pain, saying he doesn't want to over and over. All of a sudden he goes quiet and alarmed I turn to look and see if he's okay. He's sitting up, quite still and calm, the pupils of his eyes burning bright red, his lips curled in a snarl . . .
And then I woke up. Exhausted. A little bit disoriented and afraid. Wondering where all the Dodges have gone. The clock said I had been asleep less than an hour. It took much longer to write all the dreams down than to have them. There haven't been many nights without dreams in my lifetime. Any dreamless nights that did occur only happened after much liquor and/or drugs and/or many days in succession without any sleep at all. My mother dreams like this too, so I know I'm not the only one, but still . . . sometimes I wish I could just turn it off and sleep for real.
Mood: out of hand
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: On the Run, Sam Roberts
Hair: recently laundered and too f'ing thick to handle
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
More Stuff
This morning I sat in my kitchen and wrote two pages long-hand. Notes on a play that I've been swirling in my brain for awhile now. Going to the library this afternoon for some research amongst other things. I want to read "The Polished Hoe" before taking Austin Clarke's workshop during Frye Fest. I really can't afford to go total immersion into Frye this year, but I wouldn't miss this workshop for anything. Luckily Stacy is coming that weekend for the big Annual Flea Market at the arena here, so I may get to do some Frye activities afterall.
*****
Started reading Michael Winter's "This All Happened" last night. It's rather interestingly constructed. I'm not sure why he doesn't use proper contractions for words like doesnt, wouldnt, etc. No apostrophes. Curious. The novel occurs over the course of one year and has one snippet for every day, though it's not really like a diary or journal. It's a bit more relaxed than that. Last night I read January. Enjoyable so far.
*****
I remembered to take the garbage out! Because you know, soon the boys will be gone and I'll have to fend for myself, so I really can't be forgetting the garbage for months on end.
*****
Friday evening there is an Art Auction Fiesta at Owen's Gallery as a fundraiser to send some students to Mexico to work with Habitat for Humanity. I should go. NOT that I can afford to be buying art just now, but . . . I wonder if they'll take Mastercard? Just kidding. I should make more of an effort to go to these things though, if for no other reason than to check out venues for next year's WFNB AGM that I must plan.
*****
I'm marinating a steak for dinner tonight. Last night I totally pigged out on nachos with chipotle chicken, green onions, black olives, yellow peppers, green peppers, pickled jalepeno peppers, old cheddar, hot salsa and peppercorn ranch for dipping. So frigging yummy with a glass of South African Cabernet Shiraz! But tonight there will definitely be more salad and less starchy carbs because I still felt like crap when I woke up this morning from the excess of last night.
*****
I really need to do some work. Really. For serious.
Mood: a little stressed
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: The Travel Song, Pilate
Hair: tightly wound
*****
Started reading Michael Winter's "This All Happened" last night. It's rather interestingly constructed. I'm not sure why he doesn't use proper contractions for words like doesnt, wouldnt, etc. No apostrophes. Curious. The novel occurs over the course of one year and has one snippet for every day, though it's not really like a diary or journal. It's a bit more relaxed than that. Last night I read January. Enjoyable so far.
*****
I remembered to take the garbage out! Because you know, soon the boys will be gone and I'll have to fend for myself, so I really can't be forgetting the garbage for months on end.
*****
Friday evening there is an Art Auction Fiesta at Owen's Gallery as a fundraiser to send some students to Mexico to work with Habitat for Humanity. I should go. NOT that I can afford to be buying art just now, but . . . I wonder if they'll take Mastercard? Just kidding. I should make more of an effort to go to these things though, if for no other reason than to check out venues for next year's WFNB AGM that I must plan.
*****
I'm marinating a steak for dinner tonight. Last night I totally pigged out on nachos with chipotle chicken, green onions, black olives, yellow peppers, green peppers, pickled jalepeno peppers, old cheddar, hot salsa and peppercorn ranch for dipping. So frigging yummy with a glass of South African Cabernet Shiraz! But tonight there will definitely be more salad and less starchy carbs because I still felt like crap when I woke up this morning from the excess of last night.
*****
I really need to do some work. Really. For serious.
Mood: a little stressed
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: The Travel Song, Pilate
Hair: tightly wound
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Morning Pages
There's no mistaking it now, winter (such as it was) is done, spring has sprung in a big way. I absolutely love, love, love having all the windows open! But even if the skies weren't clear blue as far as the eye can see, even it was raining and dull and dark, I'd know the season changed because I've got that feeling in my gut again. That feeling of excitement and anticipation, like all is possible in the world and anything can happen. I WANT TO DO SOMETHING!
It's a feeling that reminds me of being a kid, like the day before the first day back to school after summer holiday, or the last day of school before summer holiday, or Christmas Eve. Like being a teenager and the uncontrollable inconsolable butterflies when the boy you've had a crush on for months smiles at you or brushes against you behind the stacks in the library. Like falling in love, the first year, when you're discovering everything about the person and experiencing everything with them for the first time. This is how I feel today. This is how I felt yesterday. This is how I'll feel for the next few weeks until the season settles into my skin.
I want to run, sit in the sun, swing from the trees, close my eyes and listen to the birds, be absorbed into nature, just breathe. I want to create something beautiful, say something profound, write something brilliant. This is a good kind of energy, better if I can harnass it, direct it into productivity.
Last week I had lunch with a friend and writer in Miramichi (if you can call 4+ hours, lunch) and again I talked about my inability to write anything creative without being consumed by guilt. Again I mentioned that I purchased a notebook and was going to seek a change of venue in hopes that something would "happen." Just venting helps. Just hearing someone else say they also have the demon on their shoulder telling them not to write, that it's not important, helps. She told me about a great book she'd read, though the title eludes me now, it doesn't matter. She's mentioned this book before. One day I'll read it but I don't need to yet because I've already got a message from it to chew on and digest.
The author talks about something called Morning Pages, where basically you get up and write three pages everyday. You can write anything that comes into your head. Dump all the crap that fills your brain, all the things you're trying to keep straight, all the things you have to do and the things you would like to do, and all the nasty things the demon on your shoulder says to make you feel like a shit for wanting to write stories or poetry. You spill all this crap onto three pages every morning in a sort of cleansing ritual, freeing yourself from it, gaining perspective and clarity. Later you might even find nuggets for stories or poems when you look back on the exercise after a few months.
I realised that sometimes this blog has been my morning pages, my dumping ground for the crap. But I've been blogging less, and blogging less about the crap of day-to-day, AND most importantly feeling super guilty for taking time to blog at all when I've got so much other stuff on the go. And I think it's because of this that I've been unable to write anything new. Before, when I first moved, when I was blogging at least once everyday and usually more, I wasn't writing much creatively, but there were ideas, there were some things percolating and a few paragraphs every now and then floating to the surface. I've been completely dry for months and going a little berserker from it. So maybe I'll dump more crap here. Maybe I'll dump it long-hand into a notebook. It doesn't matter how I do it, the important thing is that new stories will begin and end.
Thank the Goddess for spring and the positive energy of new life! Now I can make something happen.
Mood: excitable
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Pretty the World, Matt Nathanson
Hair: fading to strawberry blonde
It's a feeling that reminds me of being a kid, like the day before the first day back to school after summer holiday, or the last day of school before summer holiday, or Christmas Eve. Like being a teenager and the uncontrollable inconsolable butterflies when the boy you've had a crush on for months smiles at you or brushes against you behind the stacks in the library. Like falling in love, the first year, when you're discovering everything about the person and experiencing everything with them for the first time. This is how I feel today. This is how I felt yesterday. This is how I'll feel for the next few weeks until the season settles into my skin.
I want to run, sit in the sun, swing from the trees, close my eyes and listen to the birds, be absorbed into nature, just breathe. I want to create something beautiful, say something profound, write something brilliant. This is a good kind of energy, better if I can harnass it, direct it into productivity.
Last week I had lunch with a friend and writer in Miramichi (if you can call 4+ hours, lunch) and again I talked about my inability to write anything creative without being consumed by guilt. Again I mentioned that I purchased a notebook and was going to seek a change of venue in hopes that something would "happen." Just venting helps. Just hearing someone else say they also have the demon on their shoulder telling them not to write, that it's not important, helps. She told me about a great book she'd read, though the title eludes me now, it doesn't matter. She's mentioned this book before. One day I'll read it but I don't need to yet because I've already got a message from it to chew on and digest.
The author talks about something called Morning Pages, where basically you get up and write three pages everyday. You can write anything that comes into your head. Dump all the crap that fills your brain, all the things you're trying to keep straight, all the things you have to do and the things you would like to do, and all the nasty things the demon on your shoulder says to make you feel like a shit for wanting to write stories or poetry. You spill all this crap onto three pages every morning in a sort of cleansing ritual, freeing yourself from it, gaining perspective and clarity. Later you might even find nuggets for stories or poems when you look back on the exercise after a few months.
I realised that sometimes this blog has been my morning pages, my dumping ground for the crap. But I've been blogging less, and blogging less about the crap of day-to-day, AND most importantly feeling super guilty for taking time to blog at all when I've got so much other stuff on the go. And I think it's because of this that I've been unable to write anything new. Before, when I first moved, when I was blogging at least once everyday and usually more, I wasn't writing much creatively, but there were ideas, there were some things percolating and a few paragraphs every now and then floating to the surface. I've been completely dry for months and going a little berserker from it. So maybe I'll dump more crap here. Maybe I'll dump it long-hand into a notebook. It doesn't matter how I do it, the important thing is that new stories will begin and end.
Thank the Goddess for spring and the positive energy of new life! Now I can make something happen.
Mood: excitable
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Pretty the World, Matt Nathanson
Hair: fading to strawberry blonde
Monday, March 27, 2006
Back On the Ball
The thing about going away for weeks on end is the disorientation when you return. It takes a few days to get back into routine. And I seem like I get so very tired when I'm away, I could sleep non-stop for days, just lay around and veg the rest of the time when I'm not sleeping. But of course I've too much to do, no time for lounging. I've got to get back on the ball, and quickly. If I knew what zaps the life out of me, I'd change some things on future trips, but I'm totally in the dark, not a clue. All I know is that I can't stop yawning.
This time it's quite possible I caught a bug from Paulina, some sort of thing going around the school making them listless (mono?) because all week I couldn't keep my eyes open past midnight even, which is not the norm. One night I went to bed early and slept late, stayed in bed for 16 hours! How crazy is that?! Even for me, that's excessive, sleeping in that late usually means I haven't gone to bed until after dawn, so yeah I'm wondering if I've got a bug. Which brings me back to the Medicare issue again (keeps rearing its head), yes, I need to get a replacement card. Somehow this must filter to the top of my list.
I'd write more, tell you what happened while I was away, and more . . . but I'm all fogged in. Maybe if I go outside, walk around a bit in this fabulous day, maybe then I'll snap out of it.
Mood: tuckered
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: One Headlight, The Wallflowers
Hair: headbanded circa 1950's
This time it's quite possible I caught a bug from Paulina, some sort of thing going around the school making them listless (mono?) because all week I couldn't keep my eyes open past midnight even, which is not the norm. One night I went to bed early and slept late, stayed in bed for 16 hours! How crazy is that?! Even for me, that's excessive, sleeping in that late usually means I haven't gone to bed until after dawn, so yeah I'm wondering if I've got a bug. Which brings me back to the Medicare issue again (keeps rearing its head), yes, I need to get a replacement card. Somehow this must filter to the top of my list.
I'd write more, tell you what happened while I was away, and more . . . but I'm all fogged in. Maybe if I go outside, walk around a bit in this fabulous day, maybe then I'll snap out of it.
Mood: tuckered
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: One Headlight, The Wallflowers
Hair: headbanded circa 1950's
Thursday, March 16, 2006
In Dreams
Make it stop! Enough already! I'm exhausted, not sleeping well, too many dreams. Crazy things --
. . . Stacy dressed like Patty from Grease, preppy, poodleskirt girl, at a dance (school? legion? i can't tell the difference), calls out to me then some guy named Danny, (a mathmatician!) who is probably the most unattractive man I've ever seen, wanting us to meet and mingle and hopefully get married and have what I can only imagine would be the homeliest babies of all time, He's just your type! Blech! Adios!
. . . is this prison? Or school? All the lining up to be ushered somewhere, places I never actually arrive at, just the line, barely moving along, people bullying, pushing, threatening, fighting, stealing, stuff to hide from the wardens? teachers? This is boring. Tedious. I growl when someone notices me and considers approaching. Deep in my throat. Like a child. Like an animal. I won't be bullied. Don't mess with me, I'm pissed and half crazy. The line parts and I glide to the front. An abstract painting, all reds and blacks, hangs on a white brick wall. Is this all there is?
. . . another dance. No, this is a club. Drinks. Dancing. Not a dance club, though. There's a band, jazz, and couples grooving. The music takes me and I sway against strangers, eyes closed, feeling the sax. A man at the mic starts to sing and tears leak, streak navy mascara, salt my lips. It hurts to be here. Too beautiful. Too much.
. . . cement steps outside an old store. Blackville. The store that used to be out that lane by the Irving, before the ballpark, Hazel's? Maybe. Sitting on the cement steps eating candy, flavoured crystals you pick up with a candy stick you lick, orange and grape. We watch cars. The steps are hard and cold. I'm a child wearing shorts. Tiny little legs. I wonder how it can be that even now my knees hurt.
. . . steps still, but now the church and I'm wearing a short skirt, sucking on a cigarette. Hanging out. Looking toward Dungarvon in the sunset. Somebody's dead. Drowned. And we don't understand how. Why? What happened? We talk about the wake and funeral. Maybe we'll go. I understand this is a memory, this really happened. Why am I here? Why revisit? I look for clues. Cars passing. People honking. Waving. I sip Coke. I NEVER sip Coke now. Some of these people on this step are dead now, I realise. Linda. Karen. Were they really there? I don't think so. In the graveyard I see Clyde and he grins.
. . . ferris wheel takes my stomach as we round the top and drop to the ground backwards. It's too high. Too creaky. I don't like the look of the carnie running the ride. Where is this? It's night. Nothing to see beyond the carnival. I'm holding someone's hand, a little bit too tight. I'm afraid to look and see who this is. The last time I rode a ferris wheel was at the Blackville Fair. I don't want to be there. I don't want to be trapped on this ride with him. The night is too dark and the rides too bright. Is that water over there? Focus on the hand I'm holding. Fair. Long fingers. Light hairs curling into denim jacket. Can't be him. Not dark enough. Take a deep breath, look over, look up, find his face. And it's okay. I'm safe here.
And when all this happens and you wake up and look at the clock to see that you've been asleep about 15 or 20 minutes, you know you're in for a wild night. Am I the only one so moon-effected? Surely it can't be.
Mood: the original sleepyhead
Drinking: COFFEE!! But I need a pure caffeine injection . . . or cocktails
Listening To: Deny, Default
Hair: blah!
. . . Stacy dressed like Patty from Grease, preppy, poodleskirt girl, at a dance (school? legion? i can't tell the difference), calls out to me then some guy named Danny, (a mathmatician!) who is probably the most unattractive man I've ever seen, wanting us to meet and mingle and hopefully get married and have what I can only imagine would be the homeliest babies of all time, He's just your type! Blech! Adios!
. . . is this prison? Or school? All the lining up to be ushered somewhere, places I never actually arrive at, just the line, barely moving along, people bullying, pushing, threatening, fighting, stealing, stuff to hide from the wardens? teachers? This is boring. Tedious. I growl when someone notices me and considers approaching. Deep in my throat. Like a child. Like an animal. I won't be bullied. Don't mess with me, I'm pissed and half crazy. The line parts and I glide to the front. An abstract painting, all reds and blacks, hangs on a white brick wall. Is this all there is?
. . . another dance. No, this is a club. Drinks. Dancing. Not a dance club, though. There's a band, jazz, and couples grooving. The music takes me and I sway against strangers, eyes closed, feeling the sax. A man at the mic starts to sing and tears leak, streak navy mascara, salt my lips. It hurts to be here. Too beautiful. Too much.
. . . cement steps outside an old store. Blackville. The store that used to be out that lane by the Irving, before the ballpark, Hazel's? Maybe. Sitting on the cement steps eating candy, flavoured crystals you pick up with a candy stick you lick, orange and grape. We watch cars. The steps are hard and cold. I'm a child wearing shorts. Tiny little legs. I wonder how it can be that even now my knees hurt.
. . . steps still, but now the church and I'm wearing a short skirt, sucking on a cigarette. Hanging out. Looking toward Dungarvon in the sunset. Somebody's dead. Drowned. And we don't understand how. Why? What happened? We talk about the wake and funeral. Maybe we'll go. I understand this is a memory, this really happened. Why am I here? Why revisit? I look for clues. Cars passing. People honking. Waving. I sip Coke. I NEVER sip Coke now. Some of these people on this step are dead now, I realise. Linda. Karen. Were they really there? I don't think so. In the graveyard I see Clyde and he grins.
. . . ferris wheel takes my stomach as we round the top and drop to the ground backwards. It's too high. Too creaky. I don't like the look of the carnie running the ride. Where is this? It's night. Nothing to see beyond the carnival. I'm holding someone's hand, a little bit too tight. I'm afraid to look and see who this is. The last time I rode a ferris wheel was at the Blackville Fair. I don't want to be there. I don't want to be trapped on this ride with him. The night is too dark and the rides too bright. Is that water over there? Focus on the hand I'm holding. Fair. Long fingers. Light hairs curling into denim jacket. Can't be him. Not dark enough. Take a deep breath, look over, look up, find his face. And it's okay. I'm safe here.
And when all this happens and you wake up and look at the clock to see that you've been asleep about 15 or 20 minutes, you know you're in for a wild night. Am I the only one so moon-effected? Surely it can't be.
Mood: the original sleepyhead
Drinking: COFFEE!! But I need a pure caffeine injection . . . or cocktails
Listening To: Deny, Default
Hair: blah!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Over-Extended
I'm addicted to Leonard Cohen radio on Pandora.com. Just added my favourites from there to the blog sidebar.
*****
I admitted to the Writers' Group tonight that I am not writing, that I am not even thinking about my writing, I'm not letting something gel in my brain, there are no seeds, I have lost my way. That was a funny business that. I intended the comment to be more of a joke, a quick quip off something someone else had said . . . but as soon as I said it I was overcome with emotion, close to tears at first, quickly turned to a flash of anger. Was I more angry at showing so much emotion in public or the fact that I feel so out of control most of the time? Probably equal blame, enough to go around lord knows.
A profitable meeting nonetheless. Received new shoes from friend who had two pairs. Lovely. They will be my new house shoes as they are super comfortable and make me feel light and quick. I'm wearing them now. I may never take them off. Merci beaucoup!
*****
Brokeback Mountain is playing tomorrow night at the Vogue as the Film Society movie. Can I go? Can I not? Heath's character is a mumbler I know and Alastair tells me the sound in that theatre is not the greatest . . . still, the big screen versus dvd, no comparision. Can I take the time (and money) so close to another 10 days on the road? I guess it'll depend on how much I feel I accomplish between now and then. I've got to have the March 28th issue of bnm locked up before I leave. And a bunch more stuff. Plus the usual packing, setting the house in order, etc.
*****
Stacy sent me the pics from the Jon Bon concert today. Very nice! Still haven't gotten mine developed. Yes, that's how poor I am.
Mood: cooked, burnt, fried, baked, toast . . . stick a fork in me, I'm done
Drinking: California Merlot
Listening To: Until You Suffer Some (Fire and Ice), Poison
Hair: straggly, rough
*****
I admitted to the Writers' Group tonight that I am not writing, that I am not even thinking about my writing, I'm not letting something gel in my brain, there are no seeds, I have lost my way. That was a funny business that. I intended the comment to be more of a joke, a quick quip off something someone else had said . . . but as soon as I said it I was overcome with emotion, close to tears at first, quickly turned to a flash of anger. Was I more angry at showing so much emotion in public or the fact that I feel so out of control most of the time? Probably equal blame, enough to go around lord knows.
A profitable meeting nonetheless. Received new shoes from friend who had two pairs. Lovely. They will be my new house shoes as they are super comfortable and make me feel light and quick. I'm wearing them now. I may never take them off. Merci beaucoup!
*****
Brokeback Mountain is playing tomorrow night at the Vogue as the Film Society movie. Can I go? Can I not? Heath's character is a mumbler I know and Alastair tells me the sound in that theatre is not the greatest . . . still, the big screen versus dvd, no comparision. Can I take the time (and money) so close to another 10 days on the road? I guess it'll depend on how much I feel I accomplish between now and then. I've got to have the March 28th issue of bnm locked up before I leave. And a bunch more stuff. Plus the usual packing, setting the house in order, etc.
*****
Stacy sent me the pics from the Jon Bon concert today. Very nice! Still haven't gotten mine developed. Yes, that's how poor I am.
Mood: cooked, burnt, fried, baked, toast . . . stick a fork in me, I'm done
Drinking: California Merlot
Listening To: Until You Suffer Some (Fire and Ice), Poison
Hair: straggly, rough
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Where Have All the Good People Gone?
** Edited Wednesday March 15th 10 a.m.
Well I wanted to post some pictures from the Sam Roberts concert Friday night. But there's some sort of problem and I can't upload to Blogger. Which makes absolutely no difference whatsoever anyway because I can't get the damn pictures off the card anyway because the reader quit again. Which pretty much doesn't fucking matter because only having 1.0 MP and 2x digital zoom to work with on the first HP digital camera ever made, the pictures pretty much suck. Someday, somehow, when I win the lotto or get a real job, as god is my witness, I WILL HAVE A FULLY FUNCTIONAL CAMERA!!
Sherry took stills that I'm sure turned out much better. Course I can't post them here, being in film and all that. But she'll likely get doubles so I can have a set.
Okay, enough about that. The concert itself was fantastic! I really liked the venue, will totally go back to see anyone else who comes to play there. Sam Roberts was an amazing performer. If you ever get the chance to see him, GO!! Seriously, beg, borrow, rob old ladies, but get there somehow. You won't be sorry. Now I know why listening to his tunes always makes me want to dance . . . because the man can dance! He can't keep still. The Novaks were really good too. Amazing drummer! We were a little bit too close to the stage though, when they performed, and the sound sucked because we were in front of the speakers, couldn't understand a word the man said. Later we moved back and all was great.
** Edited Wednesday March 15th 10 a.m.
Mood: a little pissy/but not anymore
Drinking: cold effing coffee/freshly brewed today
Listening To: Desire, U2/ No Rolling Back, Jay Farrar
Hair: what would it look like if i just snipped the ponytail off?/still haven't snipped off the ponytail thinking bout colour today
Well I wanted to post some pictures from the Sam Roberts concert Friday night. But there's some sort of problem and I can't upload to Blogger. Which makes absolutely no difference whatsoever anyway because I can't get the damn pictures off the card anyway because the reader quit again. Which pretty much doesn't fucking matter because only having 1.0 MP and 2x digital zoom to work with on the first HP digital camera ever made, the pictures pretty much suck. Someday, somehow, when I win the lotto or get a real job, as god is my witness, I WILL HAVE A FULLY FUNCTIONAL CAMERA!!
Sherry took stills that I'm sure turned out much better. Course I can't post them here, being in film and all that. But she'll likely get doubles so I can have a set.
Okay, enough about that. The concert itself was fantastic! I really liked the venue, will totally go back to see anyone else who comes to play there. Sam Roberts was an amazing performer. If you ever get the chance to see him, GO!! Seriously, beg, borrow, rob old ladies, but get there somehow. You won't be sorry. Now I know why listening to his tunes always makes me want to dance . . . because the man can dance! He can't keep still. The Novaks were really good too. Amazing drummer! We were a little bit too close to the stage though, when they performed, and the sound sucked because we were in front of the speakers, couldn't understand a word the man said. Later we moved back and all was great.
** Edited Wednesday March 15th 10 a.m.
Mood: a little pissy/but not anymore
Drinking: cold effing coffee/freshly brewed today
Listening To: Desire, U2/ No Rolling Back, Jay Farrar
Hair: what would it look like if i just snipped the ponytail off?/still haven't snipped off the ponytail thinking bout colour today
Friday, March 10, 2006
TO Pics
I'm having a busy March Break with lots of visitors, lots of kids. No time for blogging. Stacy sent me some of the Toronto pics. Enjoy!
The view from our hotel window.
Enjoying a Cosmo in the Library Bar at the Royal York Hotel.
Sucking back a Chocolate Martini, first night in town.
The Rushton restaurant on St. Clair West a.k.a. THE SIGN that Ian made.
Great food and fabulous company at Ferro.
The restaurant in our hotel where we enjoyed Jerk Chicken Nachos upon arrival and breakfast on this sunny morning.
Here I am trying to keep the sun out of my eyes while I wait for breakfast.
And here is the breakfast, pretty good omelet.
We were particularly impressed by the butter balls.
Though nothing compared to the breakfast we had the next morning at Azure.
Check out the BEST Eggs Benedict ever!
Seriously, how much am I loving this breakfast?!
I loved this coffee shop in the Distillery District.
Another view in the coffee shop.
And another view.
Unfortunately the weather sucked the life out of our Distillery District day.
So we went shopping instead. The corner of Yonge and Dundas was unrecognizable from when I used to be here everyday.
Mood: sleepy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Dragon Tales
Hair: greying at the roots
The view from our hotel window.
Enjoying a Cosmo in the Library Bar at the Royal York Hotel.
Sucking back a Chocolate Martini, first night in town.
The Rushton restaurant on St. Clair West a.k.a. THE SIGN that Ian made.
Great food and fabulous company at Ferro.
The restaurant in our hotel where we enjoyed Jerk Chicken Nachos upon arrival and breakfast on this sunny morning.
Here I am trying to keep the sun out of my eyes while I wait for breakfast.
And here is the breakfast, pretty good omelet.
We were particularly impressed by the butter balls.
Though nothing compared to the breakfast we had the next morning at Azure.
Check out the BEST Eggs Benedict ever!
Seriously, how much am I loving this breakfast?!
I loved this coffee shop in the Distillery District.
Another view in the coffee shop.
And another view.
Unfortunately the weather sucked the life out of our Distillery District day.
So we went shopping instead. The corner of Yonge and Dundas was unrecognizable from when I used to be here everyday.Mood: sleepy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: Dragon Tales
Hair: greying at the roots
Monday, March 06, 2006
Fat Lady Sang
I sucked. Scored a whopping 10. Got all the actors and actresses right, and the writing of course, fluked a couple of others, but missed on the big ones. No idea who won, no word from Barnbonia yet. Oh well. Pinkie and I had an incredible last evening together. Next year, I will have to make time to do the research.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Update
I believe I am losing big time. Though I'm not actually hearing anything from the party as to the score. So far I've 5 correct, and a whopping 7 wrong. It doesn't look good. I'm also tired. Have exchanged Oscar outfit for more comfy jammies and warm knit socks. Have traded wine in for ice cream. It is, afterall, Sunday night. Tomorrow being a day of work.
So Far . . .
Two right. One wrong. Somebody give Dolly a doughnut or something. Please! I mean seriously what the hell happened to her face?!
Dinner is Served!
Pinkie and I have started with salad, bread and wine. Watching the ETalk Daily Pre-Oscar show. Poor Ben! Nobody knows who he is, god luv him. He has a hard time getting the A-List stars. Though he got Clooney, which was good.
Mood: hungry
Drinking: cab
Listening To: ben mulroney
Hair: Rock Star!
Mood: hungry
Drinking: cab
Listening To: ben mulroney
Hair: Rock Star!
Countdown to the Main Event
In prep mode for an evening with the Oscars. Dolling up, despite my physical distance from the party. No dress but it's all about the shoes anyway you know. Dancing about in my underwear to Sam Roberts, while I apply eyes and lips.
On the menu for tonight's festivities -- baby romaine salad, whole grain rye baguette with roasted pepper garlic butter, curried chicken with a side of brown rice OR sweet potatoe (still deciding) and a glass of California Cabernet Sauvignon (Turning Leaf).
Pink Panther occupying place of honour with spectacular view of television, fingers crossed as he roots for me (and him, having confided a strong aversion to moving earlier this week and every day since.)
Pre-pre-show events begin at 7. Pinky and I will be available for party chatting via MSN. Luck all!
Mood: excited
Drinking: nuttin yet
Listening To: Where Have All the Good People Gone, Sam Roberts
Hair: damp
On the menu for tonight's festivities -- baby romaine salad, whole grain rye baguette with roasted pepper garlic butter, curried chicken with a side of brown rice OR sweet potatoe (still deciding) and a glass of California Cabernet Sauvignon (Turning Leaf).
Pink Panther occupying place of honour with spectacular view of television, fingers crossed as he roots for me (and him, having confided a strong aversion to moving earlier this week and every day since.)
Pre-pre-show events begin at 7. Pinky and I will be available for party chatting via MSN. Luck all!
Mood: excited
Drinking: nuttin yet
Listening To: Where Have All the Good People Gone, Sam Roberts
Hair: damp
Hello Gorgeous!
It's Oscar Day and I'm fairly certain mister Pink Panther may be finding another home for the year :-( I just sent Jenn my picks, which I quickly whipped up with no thought and sometimes no idea what I had even chosen. Oy! Not the recipe for success. Last year, I actually did research. Made decisions that went against my gut, against my heart. This year it's all guts and probably no glory. Oh well. It's always fun to play along. Though I wish I could be at the party. I hear Darcey's been doing the research . . . hmmm . . . we'll see.
Last night I watched Stolen Summer, the movie that won the first season of Project Greenlight (was there more than one season?) You know it was pretty good, not that bad. I mean if you went into it with zero expectations, believing this may indeed be the worst movie you'd ever watch in your life, you'd be pleasantly surprised -- it comes nowhere near Gigli. But what I found particularly interesting were the clips from the tv show. I've zipped the first season dvds, so that'll be interesting watching I'm sure, to see the process for this first-time director. You miss so much tv when you don't have HBO, and all those other specialty channels.
Later I watched Before Sunrise back-to-back with Before Sunset. I wanted to see Vienna and Paris. I wanted to feel like I was walking around foreign cities. It worked. The dialogue in those films is so great. I love them. It's been awhile, and I'm not sure I've ever watched them together like that. I saw things I hadn't before, contrasts from the first to second. God, I love those movies!
Anyway, I wanted to feel like I was walking in foreign (European) cities because I have a big decision to make, a decision that could lead me to Amsterdam this fall. But it's HUGE. It's a challenge that will change my life forever on so many levels. I need to think really long and hard before committing myself. More on that later.
Mood: scattered in freezing rain
Drinking: coffee, with lots of cream
Listening To: Silver Lining, Steve Poltz (my new favourite song! I love this!)
Hair: due for some pre-award ceremony pampering
Last night I watched Stolen Summer, the movie that won the first season of Project Greenlight (was there more than one season?) You know it was pretty good, not that bad. I mean if you went into it with zero expectations, believing this may indeed be the worst movie you'd ever watch in your life, you'd be pleasantly surprised -- it comes nowhere near Gigli. But what I found particularly interesting were the clips from the tv show. I've zipped the first season dvds, so that'll be interesting watching I'm sure, to see the process for this first-time director. You miss so much tv when you don't have HBO, and all those other specialty channels.
Later I watched Before Sunrise back-to-back with Before Sunset. I wanted to see Vienna and Paris. I wanted to feel like I was walking around foreign cities. It worked. The dialogue in those films is so great. I love them. It's been awhile, and I'm not sure I've ever watched them together like that. I saw things I hadn't before, contrasts from the first to second. God, I love those movies!
Anyway, I wanted to feel like I was walking in foreign (European) cities because I have a big decision to make, a decision that could lead me to Amsterdam this fall. But it's HUGE. It's a challenge that will change my life forever on so many levels. I need to think really long and hard before committing myself. More on that later.
Mood: scattered in freezing rain
Drinking: coffee, with lots of cream
Listening To: Silver Lining, Steve Poltz (my new favourite song! I love this!)
Hair: due for some pre-award ceremony pampering
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Mewsik
Believe I've been tagged by Liz.
List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.
Ok. This is super duper difficult. How to narrow a list to just 7?! It baffles me. Soooo, let's open iTunes, hit random and see what turns up . . .
Ride Cowboy Ride, Bon Jovi, live acoustic version. Yes, this bunch come to the top a lot of the time. I like 'em, what more can I say?
Someday You Will Be Loved, Death Cab for Cutie, Plans album. I've been listening to this band a lot while I'm working. In particular they're good when I'm writing it seems. Their stuff is good soundtrack for your life music. Good thinking stuff.
Higher Learner, Sam Roberts, We Were Born in a Flame album. None of my friends had even heard of Sam Roberts when I first started listening to him. Now Sherry and I are going to see him play live next week. The thing about Sam Roberts is that no matter what I'm doing, his music makes me stop (or want to stop) raise my hands and move to the music. Slow or fast, no difference. I feel his music.
All Because of You, U2, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb album. I so regret I didn't make more effort to go see them in Toronto last year. U2 are classic, timeless. This is one of their latest but I truly love all of it, from the beginning.
I See A Darkness, Johnny Cash, American III album. I've been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash since seeing Walk the Line. In particular, I love this album of covers from bands like Nine Inch Nails. But I've rediscovered a lot of the classic Cash too.
Testify, Rage Against the Machine, unplugged and rare. Zach gets a lot of play here whether with Rage or other solo projects. Whenever I need resolve, determination, I find it here.
Love Calls You By Your Name, Leonard Cohen, Songs of Love and Hate album. I mean what can I possibly say about Leonard. I just think he's the coolest ever.
And that's seven, but it's not even a glimpse into the library.
Tagging . . .
I don't even know 7 bloggers . . .
Tagging anybody who wants it.
Mood: philosophical
Drinking: coffee with cream
Listening To: You Know You're Right, Nirvana
Hair: off my face
List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.
Ok. This is super duper difficult. How to narrow a list to just 7?! It baffles me. Soooo, let's open iTunes, hit random and see what turns up . . .
Ride Cowboy Ride, Bon Jovi, live acoustic version. Yes, this bunch come to the top a lot of the time. I like 'em, what more can I say?
Someday You Will Be Loved, Death Cab for Cutie, Plans album. I've been listening to this band a lot while I'm working. In particular they're good when I'm writing it seems. Their stuff is good soundtrack for your life music. Good thinking stuff.
Higher Learner, Sam Roberts, We Were Born in a Flame album. None of my friends had even heard of Sam Roberts when I first started listening to him. Now Sherry and I are going to see him play live next week. The thing about Sam Roberts is that no matter what I'm doing, his music makes me stop (or want to stop) raise my hands and move to the music. Slow or fast, no difference. I feel his music.
All Because of You, U2, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb album. I so regret I didn't make more effort to go see them in Toronto last year. U2 are classic, timeless. This is one of their latest but I truly love all of it, from the beginning.
I See A Darkness, Johnny Cash, American III album. I've been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash since seeing Walk the Line. In particular, I love this album of covers from bands like Nine Inch Nails. But I've rediscovered a lot of the classic Cash too.
Testify, Rage Against the Machine, unplugged and rare. Zach gets a lot of play here whether with Rage or other solo projects. Whenever I need resolve, determination, I find it here.
Love Calls You By Your Name, Leonard Cohen, Songs of Love and Hate album. I mean what can I possibly say about Leonard. I just think he's the coolest ever.
And that's seven, but it's not even a glimpse into the library.
Tagging . . .
I don't even know 7 bloggers . . .
Tagging anybody who wants it.
Mood: philosophical
Drinking: coffee with cream
Listening To: You Know You're Right, Nirvana
Hair: off my face
Friday, March 03, 2006
Substitute People
I just finished watching Cameron Crowe's Elizabethtown for the first time.
. . .
The music is fantastic.
. . .
But that was a given.
. . .
. . .
Critics gave this one a hard time, I remember. And yeah, it's no Vanilla Sky, but . . .
It stirs up all kinds of shit in me. I think when you grow up like I did, in such a large close-knit family, you don't realise how special that is, to be a part of something so much bigger than yourself. Or maybe you take it for granted, don't appreciate it as much as it deserves. Because it's truly a miracle.
On the occasion of my grandfather's funeral, my Calgarian cousin surprised everyone when he walked into the church on the night of the wake. His huge positive energy helped carry more than just me through those difficult couple of days. He fed on the energy of family and projected it back on us, mentioned it a few times, how great it was to be in a hall filled with family. And at the time, yeah, I kinda got that, understood he grew up different than me, without all these people. But looking around a hall at a funeral, wedding, anniversary, or any of the many occasions we gather, it doesn't take real long to lock eyes with someone you'd rather not. Yeah, we're family, but we're certainly not all friends. And I remember thinking that at the time, man, if you only knew . . . Because you know, nobody ever sees him, everybody wants to know him, so they're all putting their best face forward, right? But here's the thing I was overlooking, when I'm rolling my eyes and thinking this I can easily share looks with a couple dozen people thinking the same thing. My family. The ones who've always been there and always will. The ones I truly care about and who truly care about me. I've got dozens of them, on both sides. And I guess I've never really consciously thought about it, how rare that is, to have friendships with so many cousins, aunts and uncles.
But subconsciously it's always been there. I remember Stacy asking me one time how come I introduced her as my cousin. She seemed a little put out by it actually, upset that I didn't think of her as a friend first. And at the time I didn't really know what to tell her, didn't really see anything wrong with it but tried to make a conscious effort to introduce her differently. I understand now. It's my view of family. I've always been a little bit of a loner, hanging with one crowd for a few months and then moving on to another. I've maintained very few friendships, most in recent years. Maybe that's the way it is for everyone, I don't know, but a lot of friends have come and gone (or I've come and gone), but family is a constant. I have family I only see once or twice a year, and others like my cousin from out west that I hadn't seen since the year we were graduating high school, but when we get together it's like we've never been apart. There's a bond, a connection. It's very real, very strong, and awe-inspiringly powerful. I guess for me the saying about blood being thicker than water rings true. So declaring Stacy as my cousin, for me, meant that she was more than a friend. She's blood.
And I realised all of this when Orlando Bloom is overwhelmed in his father's family kitchen in Kentucky.
And when he touches his father's hands, I saw my father's hands and cried.
And Kirsten Dunst says she's a substitute person, that they're both substitute people. And it clicks with me, being the substitute person. And for the umpteenth time I want to know how the fuck Cameron Crowe knows me so well when we've never met.
I don't care what the critics said. I'm watching it again.
Mood: all over the place
Drinking: Turning Leaf Cabernet Sauvignon
Listening To: Promise Me This, Dawson's Creek Soundtrack
Hair: smells like celine
. . .
The music is fantastic.
. . .
But that was a given.
. . .
. . .
Critics gave this one a hard time, I remember. And yeah, it's no Vanilla Sky, but . . .
It stirs up all kinds of shit in me. I think when you grow up like I did, in such a large close-knit family, you don't realise how special that is, to be a part of something so much bigger than yourself. Or maybe you take it for granted, don't appreciate it as much as it deserves. Because it's truly a miracle.
On the occasion of my grandfather's funeral, my Calgarian cousin surprised everyone when he walked into the church on the night of the wake. His huge positive energy helped carry more than just me through those difficult couple of days. He fed on the energy of family and projected it back on us, mentioned it a few times, how great it was to be in a hall filled with family. And at the time, yeah, I kinda got that, understood he grew up different than me, without all these people. But looking around a hall at a funeral, wedding, anniversary, or any of the many occasions we gather, it doesn't take real long to lock eyes with someone you'd rather not. Yeah, we're family, but we're certainly not all friends. And I remember thinking that at the time, man, if you only knew . . . Because you know, nobody ever sees him, everybody wants to know him, so they're all putting their best face forward, right? But here's the thing I was overlooking, when I'm rolling my eyes and thinking this I can easily share looks with a couple dozen people thinking the same thing. My family. The ones who've always been there and always will. The ones I truly care about and who truly care about me. I've got dozens of them, on both sides. And I guess I've never really consciously thought about it, how rare that is, to have friendships with so many cousins, aunts and uncles.
But subconsciously it's always been there. I remember Stacy asking me one time how come I introduced her as my cousin. She seemed a little put out by it actually, upset that I didn't think of her as a friend first. And at the time I didn't really know what to tell her, didn't really see anything wrong with it but tried to make a conscious effort to introduce her differently. I understand now. It's my view of family. I've always been a little bit of a loner, hanging with one crowd for a few months and then moving on to another. I've maintained very few friendships, most in recent years. Maybe that's the way it is for everyone, I don't know, but a lot of friends have come and gone (or I've come and gone), but family is a constant. I have family I only see once or twice a year, and others like my cousin from out west that I hadn't seen since the year we were graduating high school, but when we get together it's like we've never been apart. There's a bond, a connection. It's very real, very strong, and awe-inspiringly powerful. I guess for me the saying about blood being thicker than water rings true. So declaring Stacy as my cousin, for me, meant that she was more than a friend. She's blood.
And I realised all of this when Orlando Bloom is overwhelmed in his father's family kitchen in Kentucky.
And when he touches his father's hands, I saw my father's hands and cried.
And Kirsten Dunst says she's a substitute person, that they're both substitute people. And it clicks with me, being the substitute person. And for the umpteenth time I want to know how the fuck Cameron Crowe knows me so well when we've never met.
I don't care what the critics said. I'm watching it again.
Mood: all over the place
Drinking: Turning Leaf Cabernet Sauvignon
Listening To: Promise Me This, Dawson's Creek Soundtrack
Hair: smells like celine
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Longer Days
It's nearly 6pm and still broad daylight. I like it! I like it a lot!
So I'm really looking forward to next week. It's March Break and I think my kids are coming to visit. Last I heard anyway. I am in serious kid withdrawal. Called Sherry's last night to talk with Paulina and was crushed to find out she had gone to bed. The Missus was in a mood, told me she peed on her Dora slippers but that was all, wouldn't talk to me anymore. Luckily Paulina got up for a drink and Sherry let her talk to me for a few minutes about winter carnival week. It's the Keenans who are coming to visit next week. I'm sure I'll get my fill of kid-time then, especially since I'm probably sleeping with all the little brutes.
Next Friday Sherry is coming for an overnight visit. We're going to see Sam Roberts and The Novaks. Should be fun. Next weekend is also the Sackville Film festival with a lot of student productions playing at the Vogue. This weekend there is jazz at George's Roadhouse, but I'm probably not going. I'm a little poor this week. And still not comfortable with the idea of going over there alone. At least not for the first time.
Chapman's Ice Cream blocks are on sale at Save-Easy this week, two for $5. I should buy some for when the children come.
I seem to be having a super-productive week. Hopefully this trend continues.
Mood: happy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: If You Walk Away, Fefe Dobson
Hair: yeah, lets not go there today
So I'm really looking forward to next week. It's March Break and I think my kids are coming to visit. Last I heard anyway. I am in serious kid withdrawal. Called Sherry's last night to talk with Paulina and was crushed to find out she had gone to bed. The Missus was in a mood, told me she peed on her Dora slippers but that was all, wouldn't talk to me anymore. Luckily Paulina got up for a drink and Sherry let her talk to me for a few minutes about winter carnival week. It's the Keenans who are coming to visit next week. I'm sure I'll get my fill of kid-time then, especially since I'm probably sleeping with all the little brutes.
Next Friday Sherry is coming for an overnight visit. We're going to see Sam Roberts and The Novaks. Should be fun. Next weekend is also the Sackville Film festival with a lot of student productions playing at the Vogue. This weekend there is jazz at George's Roadhouse, but I'm probably not going. I'm a little poor this week. And still not comfortable with the idea of going over there alone. At least not for the first time.
Chapman's Ice Cream blocks are on sale at Save-Easy this week, two for $5. I should buy some for when the children come.
I seem to be having a super-productive week. Hopefully this trend continues.
Mood: happy
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: If You Walk Away, Fefe Dobson
Hair: yeah, lets not go there today
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Three Hours Sleep
Stayed up late. Got up early. Couldn't sleep. Dreams again . . . bizarre stuff . . . like I was tricked into making a motion at a board meeting to oust one of the directors, getting me blackballed by writers and writing groups throughout the nation, not to mention the somewhat substantial wrath of the director I was responsible for ousting. Silly stuff, that . . . like MB was due to pick me up, take me home with her and I couldn't stop crying while I packed my stuff. A broken dream, that one. I had no options, no place to go . . . like I met an old man with long grey chin whiskers on an airplane. He seemed wise and interesting and somewhat familiar. I wanted to know him better. I wanted to know everything. We were going to Russia. I felt like he could change my life. Then the plane crashed . . . like I got to go to the Oscars! I was one of the seat fillers, dressed in my gold gown, with a short Halle hair-do (like when she won). I sat beside Robin Williams and thought I would pee myself . . .
So many more. So little rest.
Mood: i am a total freak
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: boys in their morning rituals
Hair: up and out of the way
So many more. So little rest.
Mood: i am a total freak
Drinking: coffee
Listening To: boys in their morning rituals
Hair: up and out of the way
Farewell Reading Week
Last week was good because most of the kids went away for spring fling. There was one boy here (or maybe the girl), whoever it was, they were so quiet you never knew when they were in the house or not unless they happened to flush the toilet while you were showering. Actually, I think all the kids are pretty quiet, it's just that one heavy-footed partier with the bedroom next to mine. When he's in the house, you know it. The other three could've been here all last week, you'd never know. But the absence of the guy on the other side of the wall was noted as soon as he vacated. I missed him the very first night.
And now he's back. And it's only Tuesday night, yet the dooryard is full of screaming kids rolling around in the snow, getting high and acting out. Which is fine. I used to enjoy screaming and rolling around in the snow and getting high on Tuesday night too. You could still twist my arm, get me to act out, act up, if there just wasn't so much editing and reading and writing and otherwise quiet work needing my sober concentration. Sometimes I just wanna scream GET A JOB ALREADY!
I know really I'm just jealous I don't get to cut class every Wednesday morning. That's what it is.
Ah, shit! Now the party's moved into his bedroom . . . someone just fell into the closet over there, which means they very nearly came through my wall. It'll be nice when they vacate for summer.
Mood: exasperated and a little worried I'm developing a repetitive strain injury
Drinking: tea and water
Listening To: On the Run, Sam Roberts
Hair: pulled back, today i want to grow it to my ankles, so i can wrap it around my body and keep warm next winter
And now he's back. And it's only Tuesday night, yet the dooryard is full of screaming kids rolling around in the snow, getting high and acting out. Which is fine. I used to enjoy screaming and rolling around in the snow and getting high on Tuesday night too. You could still twist my arm, get me to act out, act up, if there just wasn't so much editing and reading and writing and otherwise quiet work needing my sober concentration. Sometimes I just wanna scream GET A JOB ALREADY!
I know really I'm just jealous I don't get to cut class every Wednesday morning. That's what it is.
Ah, shit! Now the party's moved into his bedroom . . . someone just fell into the closet over there, which means they very nearly came through my wall. It'll be nice when they vacate for summer.
Mood: exasperated and a little worried I'm developing a repetitive strain injury
Drinking: tea and water
Listening To: On the Run, Sam Roberts
Hair: pulled back, today i want to grow it to my ankles, so i can wrap it around my body and keep warm next winter
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